Combaticons: Season 3
by ultharkitty
Summary: G1, Dysfunction AU. A series of cracky and not-so-cracky self-contained drabbles and ficlets involving the Combaticons, set during TFTM and season 3. Content advice will be posted in chapter headers.
1. Boredom

**Title:** Charr 1: Boredom

**Continuity:** G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU

**Rating:** PG for Cybertronian swearing

**Warnings:** None

**Disclaimer:** characters and setting not mine, just playing in the sandpit.

**Characters and/or pairings:** Blast Off, Vortex and Swindle.

**Summary:** Set between scenes during 'The Five Faces of Darkness'. The Combaticons are stuck on Charr, and Vortex is bored.

Leaning against a stub of wall, Vortex scuffed the ground with his foot. "Well," he said. "This sucks."

Blast Off didn't condescend to respond. He lay on the brushed steel floor of what had once been a public building, but which was now roofless, looted and empty. A low fuel warning had begun to ping seven joors ago, and was still pinging. He should shut it off – there was no energon left, and no means of procuring more - but he couldn't quite summon the will.

"Frag, I'm bored." Vortex prised a chunk of concrete from the wall and lay it on his open palm. He raised his hand to his optics as though aiming.

"Don't do that," Blast Off snapped, but it lacked bite. Even speaking was an effort.

"Do what?"

Blast Off sighed and turned his face to the stars. At least Charr had no cloud cover, not any more. The galaxy glimmered, scattered lights shimmering from horizon to horizon. Each blazing sun flickered, so hot and real. Too bad he'd never get up there again.

The knowledge came in waves, like the pulse of the low fuel warning. He thought he'd got used to it, then some new input would register, and it would hit him all over again: this was where they were going to die.

Still, the false promise of the stars was better than listening to Vortex. His mock-innocence grated. Especially now, as he took aim and flicked the lump of concrete out of his palm. There was a clang, and Swindle's helm appeared above the crest of a mound of rubble.

He waved his fist. "Frag you, you psychopathic moron!"

Vortex snickered. He was so easy to entertain.

Blast Off huffed, the chill air seeping in through his vents, clutching at his laser core. He shifted, uncomfortable, and caught Swindle's expression. He fought the smile that tugged at his faceplates, and lost.


	2. Space Romance

**Title:** Charr 2: Space Romance

**Continuity:** G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU

**Rating:** M

**Warnings:** plug'n'play interfacing, slash, melancholic in tone

**Disclaimer:** just playing in the sandbox

**Characters and/or pairings:** Vortex/Blast Off

**Summary:** Starving to death on Charr, Blast Off tries to find some peace and quiet, but Vortex is determined to give him something else.

All he wanted was some space.

Space away from his team. Space away from the dregs of the Decepticon army and its ceaseless bickering.

Dead End's fatalistic whining clashed with Motormaster's horrific attempts at boosting morale. The troops, so quick to factionalise at the best of times, had begun to take sides. And those sides had fragmented, even faster than usual, until even the Constructicons were warring amongst themselves.

Blast Off loathed it. He hated the quarrelling, he hated the constant clamour of argument grating over his comms. He hated being dragged into other peoples' petty disputes.

But there was nowhere to hide in this slag-forsaken wasteland.

Nowhere that Vortex wouldn't find him. Or the rest of his team, once they noticed he was gone.

That, however, was no reason not to try. It had to be worth the fuel to find even half a joor of peace.

After a few breems of searching, Blast Off found a suitable basement under one of the larger ruins.

It had been easy to get away. In an inversion of the usual laws, the Combaticons weren't in-fighting. Swindle and Brawl were playing some idiotic game of chance, Onslaught was attempting to beat the kinks out of his cannon barrels, and Vortex was… somewhere. Blast Off didn't know, and quite frankly didn't care.

Blast Off disabled his comms. The silence was instant and gratifying. He lay down under a hole in the ceiling, through which he could see the stars. He wasn't concerned about structural integrity; if the remains of the building collapsed, the end result would be the same as if it held.

The low fuel warning pinged again, and he shut it down, along with a scattering of other systems warnings. He was low on everything; hydraulic fluid, internal lubricants, coolant. Not that he needed those here. He didn't plan on moving. He would conserve his strength, use his last reserves to enjoy a long moment of peace and quiet.

It wasn't as though he could fly.

"There you are."

The words were quiet; spoken aloud, the thin air hardly carried them. Blast Off raised one finger, an acknowledgement, but otherwise remained still.

There was a puff of dust as Vortex sat down beside him, disturbing fragments of cement and metal and stone.

"I've got something for you."

Blast Off would have shrugged if he'd had the energy.

"You'll like it."

"There's no point," Blast Off said. He tugged his arm away, pre-empting the first quick stroke of his shields that seemed to presage Vortex's attempts to seduce him nowadays. But instead, his view of the stars was blocked by a dull crimson visor and the pale dinted metal of Vortex's mask.

"Seriously," Vortex said. "I mean it." The mask withdrew; he was grinning. "Unless you _want_ to turn into Dead End…"

"I'm not proselytising," Blast Off protested, then stopped; hadn't he come here to get away from arguments? "How the slag do you have so much energy anyway?"

Vortex traced the insignia on Blast Off's chest, his fingertip barely touching the ceramic. "I don't," he said. "No more than the rest of us, anyway. So, do you want to know what I've got for you?"

"If it's energon, you can keep it." Slag, he couldn't see the stars for that visor, and that finger had made its way to his waist. He squirmed. "There's… there's no point to it," he said. "It's just delaying the inevitable."

"No," Vortex said. "Not energon." He swung a leg over Blast Off, straddling him, and began to stroke the sensitive undersides of his arm shields.

"Really," Blast Off said. "I don't have the charge for this…"

"You won't need it. Trust me."

Trust him? With his fingers flicking over sensor clusters, awakening little lights in Blast Off's HUD… sending tiny, delicate trills through his sensor net. All of that drained charge, it depleted his core. Vortex was a liar.

The copter lowered his head – revealing the stars glimmering as dynamic and marvellous and taunting as before – and trailed his glossa along the edge of Blast Off's interface panel. He whispered, "Do you trust me?"

Blast Off's intakes hitched, his ailerons twitching against Vortex's feet. His fingers scrabbled at the floor.

_I'm not insane_, he thought, but said, "Why not."

Vortex laughed softly. "Open up then."

"Subtle," Blast Off commented, but he gave the command for the cover to slide back.

Vortex was quick to establish the connection, his optics flickering as the first ripple of data fed through the interface. Blast Off sighed, and tried to ignore the insistent, sinking feeling that he really didn't have the fuel for this, let alone the charge. That it would compromise the functionality of his processor, that it would interfere with his enjoyment of even that small view of the stars.

Then Vortex pinged for access to his sensor net.

"Huh?" Through the thrilling tingle of data exchange, Blast Off couldn't quite articulate his confusion. Nor his concern. That was far too intimate for his tastes. What was the copter up to?

Vortex sent another request, impatience evident in the press of his fingers, the flow of the data stream.

"Ugh… Why not," Blast Off said for the second time. They were going offline soon anyway, and wasn't it better to slip into stasis lock connected, his last view that of the sky, than to die in some asinine fight over half an energon cube?

He granted access, and Vortex grinned. Then vanished, as Blast Off's optics ceased to register light on any spectrum. Blast Off tensed as his other sensory systems also failed – he could no longer feel the floor beneath him. He couldn't taste the desiccated bitterness of Charr's dead atmosphere, or smell the tang of old joint lubricant.

Instead, there was nothing.

No, not nothing; there was cold, a fluctuating chill that settled just above absolute zero. Then warmed, slowly, deliberately, as an hallucination came into view, a distant sun getting incrementally closer. He was in alt mode, weightless, with no sensation of movement other than that suggested by his visual sensors. There was no sound but the background hiss and crackle of the universe. No signals butting for attention from his comms. No scent.

"You miss flying, don't you?" Vortex's words appeared as text on his HUD. Blast Off relaxed; he felt like laughing.

The star vanished momentarily, other more distant stars streaming across his vision as his alt mode spun a slow, lazy roll.

"You miss being out there?"

It wasn't perfect, there were tiny flaws, things that Vortex didn't – couldn't – understand about space flight. But it took him away from Charr; it was illusion enough.

"Not right now," he replied.


	3. Temper

**Title: **Charr 3: Temper

**Continuity:** G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings:** Mild violence, Cybertronian swearing

**Disclaimer:** just playing in the sandbox :D

**Characters and/or pairings:** Combaticons - all of them!

**Summary:** In 'The Five Faces of Darkness, part 2', Vortex says something particularly dumb and Swindle has a go at him for it - in this, Vortex gets (petty) revenge.

"Vortex, you're an idiot." Swindle slumped, his helm knocking a chunk out of the wall behind him. "I mean a real, honest to fraggin' goodness _idiot_. Why the slag do you think your gun doesn't work? You're worse than Brawl."

Brawl gave Swindle the finger, a gesture he'd evidently learnt back on Earth. Vortex merely glared.

"And another thing," Swindle began, but Onslaught cut him off.

"We don't care," he said. "Be quiet, save your strength."

Swindle barked a bitter laugh. "What the slag _for_? Cyclonus took our energon. We've got no fuel, no way of getting off this scrap heap. No off-world comms. This is the fraggin' _pit_."

"I said be quiet." There was a subtle change in Onslaught's tone, signalling the speedy erosion of his temper.

Vortex grinned under his mask; this could get interesting. If only he had a way of goading Swindle without Onslaught finding out. Sitting between them, performing basic maintenance on his cannon, Blast Off gave a minute shake of his head, as though he could tell what Vortex had in mind. Perhaps he wasn't as blind to the group dynamic as he pretended to be.

Across the way, Swindle resumed staring into space. Probably calculating their worth on the Intergalactic spare parts market. He could be a condescending piece of scrap at times, and this past joor had been one of those times. All Vortex had to do was make one dumb-aft comment about his gun not working properly, and Swindle laid straight into him. In public. Anyone else, he could just ignore, but not Swindle.

He dug around in the litter at his feet and retrieved a shard of glass. Blackened on one side, it made a decent mirror. He diverted more of his remaining charge than he should have into his optics, increasing their brightness, and directed the reflected light at Swindle's face.

Swindle tensed, looking around.

Vortex stopped, waiting for Swindle to relax again. It didn't take long. After performing what basic maintenance they could, there was nothing to do, just sit around and wait for Cyclonus to come back.

If he was coming back.

Vortex focused the light again, shining it into Swindle's optics.

Swindle twitched. He gave Vortex a suspicious glance, his lips set in a thin little line. Vortex did it again.

"You blasted fragger!" Swindle launched himself from the wall, aiming his scatter blaster, his finger squeezing the trigger. "You can't slaggin' well quit it, can you?" He snarled as his weapon, predictably, spat a few desultory sparks and died. Then swore as Onslaught's fist caught him in the side of the helm, sending him sprawling.

Onslaught stood over him, hands on his hips. "I said, _be quiet_."

Over on the other side of the ruin, Brawl winced in sympathy, then started laughing.

Vortex smirked and palmed the glass; it could be useful later. Blast Off simply sighed.


	4. I hate the slaggin' screen

**Title: **I hate the slaggin' screen

**Rating: **PG

**Characters: **Blast Off and Brawl

**Warnings: **Cybertronian swearing

**Disclaimer: **not making anything out of this, just playing with some interesting characters

**Notes: **Drabble prompt response - Blast Off and Brawl - Monitor Duty

Blast Off and Brawl

"What's this do?" Brawl prodded a dial. Why'd there have to be so many dials? Not to mention switches, lights, readouts... Blast Off was _complicated_.

"That's sensitive equipment!" the shuttle snapped. "And you will refrain from touching any of it."

"I wasn't," Brawl huffed. His knuckles itched; if only he could punch a hole in the cockpit glass. But Onslaught had given him his orders: no in-fighting, no agitatin' Blast Off, and no touching the instruments.

"Just watch the screen," Blast Off said.

"Just watch the screen," Brawl repeated, snarling. "It's _boring _watching the screen. I hate the slaggin' screen."

Aaaaand, here is came. The sigh, crackly and slightly forced over internal comms, the angry flicker of lights, the not-so-subtle zooming of the cockpit camera. Brawl hunched down in his seat. Next would come the shouting in three... two... one-

"All I need to do is to recharge!" Blast off yelled. "Can't you just sit quietly and watch the monitor for half a pit-damned cycle? Just one cycle! All you have to do is keep an eye out for Autobots, that's it! Everything else is pre-programmed. What the frag is wrong with you that you can't _just sit still_. Gah, you are such a pain in the aft!"

"You're a pain in the aft," Brawl muttered. It didn't help.


	5. Rest

**Title:** Rest

**Continuity:** G1 cartoon, Dysfunction AU

**Rating:** PG for very light innuendo

**Warnings:** None

**Disclaimer:** Just playing in the sandbox, as usual, characters aren't mine

**Characters and/or pairings:** Blast Off, Vortex, Brawl, Onslaught and Swindle.

**Notes:** Written for the prompt 'Trying to sleep/recharge in a very uncomfortable place'. Set during Season 3.

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"Frag this, I just can't get off." Vortex shifted for the five hundredth time since they'd settled down to recharge. Blast Off knew, he'd been counting.

A harsh orange light appeared in the gloom, followed quickly by a crass, booming noise. "Ahahahahahahahahahaha!"

Blast Off sighed. If only Starscream had installed a volume control, Brawl might be tolerable. At least they were far enough underground that the enemy, such as it was, wouldn't be able to hear him.

"Shut up," Vortex snarled. "I meant to recharge."

"Yeah, but you said-" Brawl yelped, cut off in mid-obvious-innuendo. Vortex must have done something, but Blast Off didn't know what, and quite frankly he didn't care.

"Stop that." The deep rumble of Onslaught's voice resonated from the other end of the cave. Unlike Blast Off, he probably did care; they all needed proper recharge before storming the enemy base.

Vortex huffed, and shifted again.

Blast Off resisted moving. The floor was lumpy and unyielding. It was like lying on a bed of broken parts. No matter how he settled, whether in root mode or alt, whether sitting or lying, he just couldn't get comfortable. And it was wet.

As usual, his team mates weren't helping.

Brawl was loud, Vortex couldn't stop fidgeting, and as for Swindle… Actually, Blast Off realised he didn't know.

He adjusted his optical sensors to detect infra-red, and made a quick sweep of the cave. Swindle showed as a small heap of limbs and tyres in the centre of the floor, his foot in a pool of water, his head resting against the base of a stalagmite. His vents were slow and even, his expression perfectly relaxed. How Brawl hadn't woken him, Blast Off had no idea.

Vortex sighed and rolled over. Five hundred and two, Blast Off thought. At least one of them was getting some rest.


	6. Sheer Naked Boom

**Title:** Sheer Naked Boom.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Content Advice:** mention of slash, hint of gun!kink  
**Characters and/or pairings:** Swindle, Vortex, Onslaught, Brawl, with implied Onslaught/Vortex  
**Summary:** The Combaticons are preparing for the invasion of Paradron. Crack inspired by a brief scene from fight or flee (screencap here: .)

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"Hey Tex!" Swindle yelled. "We're packing for an invasion, not a vacation. I know those words are kinda similar, but they're not the same."

On the other side of the hangar, Vortex flipped Swindle one of the many obscene hand gestures he'd learnt on Earth, and went back to inspecting his new toy. His and Onslaught's new toy, really. Swindle could just about see his commander's feet sticking out from the maintenance hatch.

Onslaught had dubbed it the Annihilator, and he and Vortex had spent many a happy joor talking about it, looking at it, loading it, unloading it, poking it, prodding it, and probably fragging on top of it if the noises Swindle heard a few nights ago were any indication. It apparently had to be test fired at least once a breem or it'd explode. Or they would. Their sheer ebullient joy was nauseating.

"I want one," Brawl sighed. His shoulders slumped, and his visor developed what Swindle had come to call his dreamy look. "It's so… _big_."

Swindle shook his head and turned back to his inventory. What was it with military types and big ordnance?

And it wasn't just big ordnance – _they_ were big ordnance – it was immense machines of questionable value that fired missiles the size of Galvatron with little to no guidance, that lumbered along on treads wider than Blast Off's aft, that required Bruticus just to shift them from the hangar to the shooting range because they damned well weren't getting anywhere quickly under their own power. Big machines that were, in Swindle's rather considerable experience, a lot of flash for your cash, but only in terms of sheer, naked boom.

He could outrun the stupid thing walking backwards.

But the Annihilator had it's plus points. It kept Vortex busy, for a start. And Onslaught. And that gave him a bit of extra wiggle room with his own plans, provided Blast Off wasn't looking.

The only downside was that Vortex wanted to take it to Paradron, and Onslaught hadn't told him no.

As far as Swindle was concerned, a machine like that was good for selling to mechs whose battle lust exceeded their processing power, but not for equipping an invasion force. What Onslaught was thinking, Swindle could only guess. Probably something along the lines of 'ooooh, shiny'.

There was a clunk as Brawl's aft hit the floor. He hugged his knees, his cannon barrel inching forwards. Oh great, epic sulk coming on in three… two… one… "Why do they get one and I don't?" he wailed.

Swindle glanced over his shoulder. Onslaught had emerged, covered all over in grease, and was pointing something out which Vortex evidently found fascinating. It was a sickening display of team bonding.

"Maybe they'll let you fire it?" Swindle said, unable to meet Brawl's gaze. He knew full well they wouldn't.


	7. On the desk

**Title:** On the desk  
**Continuity:** G1  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Content advice:** crack, implied violence, interrogation setting, Vortex traumatizing Wheelie, slashy, and non-explicit talk of smut.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine, just playing in the sandbox.  
**Prompt:** When words don't come out easily  
**Characters and/or pairings:** Vortex/Brawl, Wheelie  
**Summary:** A very silly story in which Brawl finds it hard to say what he really wants, and picks the worst time to try.

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/Tex... I'm BORED./

Only Brawl could yell so loudly over a private internal comm. channel.

Vortex remained still. Seated at a desk, his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, he stared at the prisoner. It was all did, and it was all he'd been doing now for a solid half a joor. The prisoner quivered.

/TEX!/ Brawl boomed. /Tex, I know you're there! I'm _bored!_/

/And I'm busy,/ Vortex responded. He vented a long, slow sigh, and the prisoner flinched.

/Seriously, Tex, I'm bored and… and…./ Oh great, Brawl was in persistent mode.

/You bored or you horny?/ Vortex said. He focused on the prisoner's face: pale lips set in a firm line, blue optics flickering, a dozen little recalibrations every astrosecond as the prisoner tried oh so hard not to stare back. His orange cowl was scuffed, his chest-plates damaged. Someone had scrubbed out his insignia, the stern Autobot glare cut through with a mess of scratches. Must have happened in transit, like a lot of the other damage. It certainly didn't happen on the mission.

Over the comm., Brawl 'um'ed and 'ah'ed. It didn't come easy to him, speaking. Not least when he had something to admit.

/Bored,/ Vortex repeated. /Or horny?/ The Autobot shifted, tugging gently on his restraints. An open fuel line dribbled energon down his arm.

/Uh, kinda both?/ Brawl said.

Vortex resisted another sigh. /I'm working,/ he replied. /Go see Swindle./

/He went out!/ Brawl wailed. /And Blast Off said no, and Onslaught ain't here, and I'm bored!/

/And horny,/ Vortex couldn't help but add. He tilted his head, and the Autobot's fists clenched, but still he didn't speak. Vortex was impressed; the prisoner had come in loud, yelling insults in his odd little rhyming dialect, throwing around threats as though he wasn't half their size and a quarter of their weight. But as soon as Vortex secured him to the chair, he clammed up. His lips went tight, his optics hard, and he'd said absolutely nothing since. The changes in his body language, however, they said so very much.

/Yeah, exactly!/ Brawl cried, as though the acknowledgment was some kind of triumph. /You wanna do it in Ons's office? You could, like, sit on his desk and do that thing you do with my cannon barrel, and I could-/

/Brawlie, I'm _busy_,/ Vortex said. /Y'know, interrogating a prisoner. That thing, where I have a job to do 'cause me being useful is good for the team and means we don't get deactivated?/ Not to mention, his work was seriously enjoyable.

/Awwwwwwwwwww! Oh come _on!_ That's-/ Brawl stopped, and Vortex could hear the mental gears crunching. /Can I help?/

/What? Frag no./

/But we're BONDED!/

Oh no, not this again. Vortex fought to keep the impatience from showing.

/You gotta do stuff to or… org... re-in-force the bonding pro-to-cols./ Brawl pronounced each syllable distinctly, evidently struggling. /Screamer said so!/

/Augment,/ Vortex snapped. It was irritating when Brawl had a point, especially when it was a good one. Still, he couldn't help adding, /And you do everything Screamer ever told you to? You didn't listen to him when he was alive.../

There was silence. The crackly kind, which meant that Brawl hadn't closed the link, he just wasn't speaking. Vortex leaned forward and, ever so slowly, dragged his finger across the ruined paint of the prisoner's faction symbol. It was time for a change of pace. The prisoner flinched and bit his lower lip, straining to get away. Good.

Not so good that Brawl still wasn't talking. It meant he was thinking, or trying to.

The Autobot's vocaliser hissed. "Whatever you do, got nothing to tell you," he spat. Bravado over terror, nice combination. Vortex got up and walked around the table. The prisoner's optics widened, and his lower lip began to tremble.

"That's OK," Vortex said. He sat on the edge of the desk – trying very hard not to think about sitting on a certain other desk – and took the Autobot's chin in his hand. "You've got nothing I need to know."

The prisoner's mouth moved, his fists clenched and unclenched. The shivering was rather attractive, all in all, even if the frame and general attitude left everything else to be desired. Still, this was work, and work was… not fragging Brawl on Onslaught's desk.

The Autobot squeaked, and Vortex tightened his grip.

"Y'see," Vortex said. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, seeing as you ain't getting out of here." He tugged the Autobot's head forward, forcing the small body to follow. The joints creaked; the restraints had no give, and Vortex was tempted just to tug until the servos snapped. But that wasn't the plan.

He pressed the metal of his battle mask against the Autobot's cowl, pausing a moment to enjoy the flare of hatred and disgust that crackled through the prisoner's energy field.

"I got a friend on the inside," Vortex whispered. "You couldn't tell me anything I don't already know."

The Autobot seemed to come to life. Squirming and thrashing, he fought against the bonds, against Vortex looming so very still over him, against the lie which would filter through his processor, a taint of rust that would eventually spread to colour his thoughts. To make him question his friends, his allies. A little gift of paranoia and distrust.

It was a shame that letting him go was all part of the plan. But that wouldn't be for another few joors, when Onslaught got back from his meeting with Cyclonus.

And a few joors was just enough time to have some serious fun.

Vortex tightened his grip on the Autobot's throat. He only realised that he'd forgotten about Brawl when the door smashed open and the tank rushed at him.

"What? You ain't finished yet!" Brawl shot the prisoner a malicious glare, fists raised. "Hurry up and tell him scrap or I'll slag ya!"

Sometimes, not killing his team mates was an effort. Vortex brought his fingers together, and the Autobot screamed. But not for long, the delicate circuitry of his vocal processors crumbled, their protective plating torn. So much for taking his time.

"OK!" Brawl cried. "You done here right? Cause I... yeah, y'know!" He continued in a booming whisper. "Onslaught's desk and all…"

The Autobot froze, his optics going from Vortex to Brawl and back again. Vortex retracted his mask, treating the prisoner to a grin which made his little white hands shake.

Vortex patted the table. "You want me sitting on a desk, I'm sitting on a desk."

Brawl looked confused. "But the prisoner…"

"He ain't going anywhere," Vortex said. "Ever." He flicked his rotors, and the prisoner shook his head violently, the convulsion carrying along down his body, becoming a fit of struggling. Metal screeched and clattered. Vortex glanced at Brawl. "What are you waiting for?"

"Woohoo!" Brawl yelled, and leapt.


	8. Planning, Onslaught and Razorclaw

Onslaught and Razorclaw plan a joint Combaticon-Predacon mission.

Gen, mention of violence, PG-13.

Written to a prompt from thousanth: Razorclaw, Onslaught - Similarities, differences

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"Stage one," Onslaught said, "orbital strike. Blast Off will target the facility from the upper atmosphere. Laser cannons should break through the outer shell." He paused long enough to load his second image, a three dimensional plan of a neat, compact building. He glanced at Razoclaw, making sure his audience was still listening.

Blue lines flickered on the vid screen, reflecting on the cool yellow of Razorclaw's helm. A grunt of acknowledgement, all Onslaught was getting.

"Stage two," Onslaught said. "Aerial bombardment. Vortex and Divebomb. They get in close and quick, disable any remaining towers and take out the rest of the cameras. You still with me?"

Razorclaw rolled his shoulders. "Standing here, aren't I?"

"Stage three," Onslaught continued, optics on Razoclaw's visor. The mech was still, quiet, no reading him; frustrating. "Ground-based assault. We lead, everyone follows." He pressed a button, and a red line sprung up, weaving through the map. "This is the route. We get in quick, shoot to kill, clear the facility in two breems, locate the target and extract in a further half a breem. Stage four, Blast Off descends for pickup."

Razoclaw gave the screen a long look before speaking. "Waste of energy," he said.

Onslaught bristled. "Explain."

"Why go in? Why not wait for them to come out?"

"Time," Onslaught said carefully, "is of the essence."

"Then force them out," Razorclaw said. "Corrosive gas in the ducts, watch them run."

"They're better contained." Onslaught said. "We can't risk any escaping, or any damage to the target."

"Target's protected," Razorclaw countered. "Plasteel, two mechanometers thick. I don't see a problem."

"We don't know that for sure. If they're running experiments, it might be exposed."

"We don't know that for sure," Razorclaw parroted. "And we don't know they don't have warping capability."

"Blast Off will maintain his position," Onslaught said. "If any warp out, he'll see them. Max range won't take them out of the crater, let alone off planet. They'll die, same as the rest."

"We could kill them faster," Razorclaw said with a shrug. "Easier."

"We need to be proactive." Onslaught almost growled the word. In and out in three breems at the most, clear the facility, take charge of the target and back to Chaar. "No waiting around, no margin for error."

"No careful close observation," Razorclaw said. "No time to let the enemy come to you. But you enjoy it, don't you? Going in cannons first, getting your hands dirty."

"Hardly." A brief pause, time to get his anger in check. "We stick with the plan, no deviations. Brief your team."

Razorclaw palmed the data crystal with his copy of the plans. "You do enjoy it," he said, making for the door.

Onslaught raised his head, visor dim. "So do you."


	9. Revenge, Vortex, Shockwave

Unicron's attack has left Shockwave broken and vulnerable, and the very worst of people finds him.

Contains graphic violence and gore, torture, non-sexual p'n'p rape, implied snuff.

Rated R

Written for the tf_speedwriting Spam Weekend, to the prompt: _'That cold ain't the weather, that's death approaching.' _30 Days of Night (2007)

Note - I adore Shockwave, but horrible things tend to happen to my favourite characters. This is my headcanon for the Dysfunction AU regarding why he vanishes from canon after TFTM. It makes sense to me that the Combaticons would take the opportunity for some payback after the Detention Centre (even though Shockwave was just the custodian, and not the person who ordered them to be shut away).

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* * *

**Revenge is a dish best served outside the view of witnesses**

Shockwave never thought it would come to this. Crushed by the fist of Unicron, pinned under the carcass of one of his own Guardians.

Above him stretched the sky, star scattered and crossed with the vapour trails of his seekers. The fliers died like fireworks, and debris was a constant rain.

The ground was cool on his back. Once, it had been warm. Millions of years before, when Cybertron still orbited its sun and the warmth of its radiation met the heat of the living planet.

Now the only living planet was Unicron, the only heat came from his devastation.

Shockwave shivered, and he couldn't help but analyse the sensation. It came with a wash of cold, although no coolant had been released. It was a simple physiological response, a reaction to the shock of his injuries, the loss of energon.

He issued an all-frequencies distress signal, and was surprised by the urgency of his own action.

Astroseconds passed, his core temperature fell. Something leaked in his chassis, a brief warmth that cooled far too quickly and seeped from the cracks in his sides.

A lull in the battle brought him the distant hum of a heliformer's rotors. Hope surged, strange and alien.

It died when the heliformer landed.

"Are you stuck?" Vortex said. He straddled Shockwave's chassis, cupping his head and turning it this way and that. Shockwave struggled to move, to push Vortex off, put his arms were too weak, his body pressed by the Guardian's corpe.

Vortex picked up a jagged fragment of tetra jet, and worked it into the gaps at Shockwave's shoulders. Shockwave shuddered.

"Cold?" Vortex said pleasantly. "They say the dying feel it coming, death. They say it's like a chill they just can't shake."

"Disloyal-" Shockwave began, but the pain was overwhelming, and a tide of crackling black swept over his visual field.

"Better safe than sorry," Vortex said. "Wouldn't want you moving around and spoiling everything now, would I?"

Shockwave rebooted his optic, "This is illogical! You are required to assist me!"

"No I'm not." Vortex cocked his head to one side, and slid the fragment of tetra jet into a seam at Shockwave's waist. "I don't think I'll bother with the manual release," he said. "I can work it off just fine like... this, ah!"

Vortex bent back his interface cover, and Shockwave screamed static.

"You're the lucky one," Vortex said. "A few joors and it'll all be over. Not like it was for me. For us, in the Detention Centre." He plugged in, and Shockwave saw his chance, but instead of the frail firewalls of this convict rotary, his attack met Onslaught's solid defenses, Blast Off's superior alpha caste shields. He could have taken Vortex, but the combined force of the Combaticon gestalt bond was an immovable object. And when their own attack came, it wasn't just with Vortex's vicious creativity, but Brawl's brute strength and Swindle's cunning.

Shockwave's firewalls held, but his focus was not infinite. Vortex gouged great scrapes in the surface of his optic, and peeled the coating from the cables of his throat. Small pains, grating, irritating, relentless. Each one increased the likelihood that his firewalls would crack, that he would lose the ability to respond to each fresh assault.

Vortex bit Shockwave's antenna, rending the metal, spreading a gnawing cold agony from the top of Shockwave's helm to his right shoulder. The heliformer shoved the shrapnel shard into Shockwave's fuel intake. The cap ruptured and the rubber seal tore.

Shockwave held out until his gun arm was nothing but struts, until his chest was laid bare of all armour and insulation. He saw it coming with time to spare, and although it was not logical he clung to the illusion that if he could just keep going, if he could maintain his firewalls long enough, someone would come. Someone loyal.

No-one did.

His warriors were dead, his army dispersed.

His firewalls fell.

Vortex's triumph was sickening. But worse was the whine of a shuttle approaching, the blur of purple and brown, the sound of transformation.

New shadows crowded him, intruding on his view of the sky. He couldn't see them, not clearly, but he knew who they were.

Vortex sprawled over him, engine roaring hot, rotors shivering, and whispered, "We've been waiting for this."


End file.
